


Limitless

by Mythdefied



Category: Hercules: The Legendary Journeys
Genre: M/M, fluffy psycho love, so not for the faint of heart, they're a pair of twisted fucks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2013-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-26 04:18:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/646491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mythdefied/pseuds/Mythdefied
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Strife didn't know why he kept coming back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Limitless

Strife didn't know why he kept coming back. It would've been too easy to say it was the sex. True, Deimos was always so pretty down on his knees, naked, cock so hard and red as he sucked Strife's dick, lips stretched wide around him. Even prettier on his back, legs pressed to his chest, holding himself open for Strife. And Strife never did get tired of listening to those swift, panting gasps, watching as he pushed slowly into that tight little hole, seeing Deimos take him in inch by slow inch.

Deimos did let him do things no one else had, or at least no one else had done it willingly. And there was something to be said for bedding someone who wanted it, begged for Strife's entire hand up his ass instead of screaming for him to stop, who would take anything at all so long as it was Strife putting it there. Deimos never said no. He went willingly when Strife wanted to chain him in Hephaestian metal, strip him of his powers, make him bleed inside and out. He came and cried out for more. He didn't protest when Strife brought in other gods, other beings and wanted to watch Deimos with them. Even the centaurs only brought a giggle and a question of what position Strife wanted to see them all in.

It was actually Deimos himself who brought his twin Phobos, his perfectly identical in face alone, but his opposite beneath. Sweet to Deimos' deviance, and he'd been so innocent and trusting; that had changed by the time they let him go, days later. Deimos sometimes brought corpses, when the mood struck them, often a fresh young boy, dead barely minutes by Deimos' hand, still warm, tight, still sluggishly bleeding from a stab wound to the heart. Sometimes a girl, but those he usually brought alive, and very young.

They'd never met a line they wouldn't cross together, things that made even Ares turn faintly green when he learned what they did, but it never bothered them. Deimos' creativity, his lusts and desires were a perfect match for Strife's. It didn't always have to be exotic or taboo, sometimes it felt more...intimate if it was just the two of them, alone, Deimos gasping and pleading as Strife held him still and slowly licked his way into Deimos' ass. Deimos returning the favor before losing patience and just pulling Strife back onto his cock. Always so painful, so perfect that way.

They could last for days, for eternity in theory, being gods, but Strife was afraid the whole thing would lose its draw if he stayed too long, so he always found an excuse to leave. And Deimos always watched him go, never saying a word, just watching.

But Strife came back, time and again. Maybe he stayed away a few days, a few weeks, once for an entire year, but he always returned. And Deimos seemed to know when he was ready, when Strife couldn't fight the need, the burning desire to have Deimos in any and every way. Deimos would be there, meeting his gaze, grinning. It didn't matter if Ares was in the middle of one of his rants or if they were in the middle of an entire war, Deimos knew, and the invitation was there. Strife never refused.

They had a small place in the mortal realm, hidden from mortal eyes. Neither of them were "real" Olympians and while they could crash with whoever would have them up there, none of the other gods would tolerate their joint excesses. So they'd found their own place long ago. A one room cottage, nothing fancy, but what else did they need except a big bed and room to store their toys? It was the closest thing to home Strife had ever had, maybe Deimos too, but Strife had never asked. On days after Hercules had wiped the ground with him, again, it was the only place he really wanted to be.

"Hey, cuz." Deimos met him at the door, had probably been waiting for him since they'd seen each other in Ares' temple hours earlier.

Deimos' hands were quick, pulling apart leather knots in Strife's outfit even as he leaned forward to give Strife a kiss that was nearly chaste, just a mere pressing of lips. Strife sighed and closed his eyes, leaning into the kiss, wanting so much more.

But Deimos drew back. He'd pulled open the leather enough to slide his fingers inside where they stroked Strife's skin, hot against the chill Strife had felt since he'd run from Hercules.

"Guess the day kind of, heh, sucked, didn't it?" Deimos didn't quite giggle there, more of a nervous twitter, a habit that Strife found inexplicably soothing.

"No, Deimos," Strife opened his eyes with another sigh, "I just love getting my ass kicked by Zeus' bastard. Makes my day, you know?" But there was no anger behind the sarcasm, just resignation.

"Can't kill him, can't really hurt him; what to do, huh?" Deimos' tone was calm as he looked at Strife, fingers still stroking. "Or...maybe we _can_ hurt him."

"What do you mean?" Strife frowned. "We put a real scratch on Jercules and Zeus will have us scraping chamber pots in Tartarus."

"Yeah, and not in a fun way." Deimos sighed, but it was loud and long, too theatrical; he was up to something.

"Give, Deimos. What're you pulling?" Strife was suspicious now, but he couldn't keep the corner of his mouth from turning up, a half smile. Deimos had yet to disappoint him and the anticipation was...nice.

Pulling his fingers back, Deimos took hold of Strife's arm and stepped back into the cottage. "C'mon, Strife. I made dinner."

Strife shrugged and followed him in. Sometimes Deimos brought things he sneaked from Bacchus' temple, delicacies they couldn't get otherwise. Rare wines and sweets. But as he stepped into the cottage, kicking the door shut behind him, he smelled the delicious scent of roasting meat.

"Ribs? Cool." Strife's mouth was watering.

"Something like that." Deimos stepped aside with a grin, opening the rest of the cottage to Strife's view.

A fire pit had been carved out of the dirt floor, all of their toys pushed to the side to make room for the large spit busy turning over the fire. The smoke was vanishing even as it rose and the flames never once leaped out of the pit itself, nice display of control over godly powers. But the darkly roasted carcass on the spit....

For a moment Strife just stared, then the laughter bubbled out, bright and loud as an invisible weight disappeared from inside him.

"You like?" Deimos' tone, the certainty there, said that he already knew the answer.

"Oh yeah." Strife grinned at him, still chuckling. "I love...it." So close to saying something else, something Strife had never given a single thought to, never once suspected, and the laughter abruptly died.

Strife found himself just standing there, staring at Deimos. It was a too-obvious slip, it had to have been noticed and why wasn't Deimos sneering at him? Making fun of Strife "losing his edge" or going weak on him; Strife would've done it.

But Deimos was smiling instead, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "I know, Strife. C'mon, let's eat."

Strife let himself be pulled forward, still staring at Deimos, still not getting it. Deimos knew? How could he know when Strife hadn't? Oh, he'd never stopped wanting Deimos, lusting after him, the things they did, craving his company, needing so badly to be with him--

Oh. Fuck.

Looking at Deimos as he held up a long, serrated blade, grinning so broadly, Strife realized that this time, he wouldn't be making any excuses, wouldn't be leaving. Not until their jobs forced them to go.

Strife...cared. Why hadn't anyone ever told him that? It wasn't fair that he hadn't known he had a weakness, that his weakness was blond, twisted, and so very, very perfect.

The firelight was reflecting off the metal of the blade, gleaming in Deimos' eyes.

"Dark meat or light?" Deimos asked.

"Uh...dark," Strife replied, never taking his eyes off Deimos.

"Cool, I like white meat better anyway." 

And Deimos began carving the dripping flank of what had once been Iolaus.

Fin

**Author's Note:**

> This is a love story. Deimos and Strife, on their own seriously fucked up path of romance.


End file.
